


thinking of you like all of us do

by ferryboatpeak



Category: Harry Styles (Musician), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Harrycest, Leather gloves, M/M, Makeup, Oral Sex, Selfcest, beauty papers, fishnet harry, fishnet stockings, suit and gloves harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23489923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferryboatpeak/pseuds/ferryboatpeak
Summary: fishnet harry tops suit and gloves harry. that's it, that's the fic.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Harry Styles
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	thinking of you like all of us do

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to the very inspiring [beauty papers shoot](https://www.artistrylondon.com/photography-motion/casper-sejersen/beauty-papers-x-harry-edward-styles#5e71265c-adb8-4edc-af57-035bac110002), and thanks to lordendsavior's [anon](https://ferryboatpeak.tumblr.com/post/612854985648160768/i-wish-to-watch-rubber-glove-harry-top-fishnet), and thanks to the five people who reblogged that post and tagged it with some permutation of "please write this fic." i love every one of you sickos, and i hope this lives up to your expectations.
> 
> thanks also to [ticklefightharry](https://ticklefightharry.tumblr.com/) for the beta! any mistakes are my fault not hers.

“Open up.” Lisa’s voice is still at close range, definitely between Harry and the mirror. He opens his eyes and cranes his neck to one side, trying to see over her shoulder.

“Hold on.” She presses a thumb against his cheek to point him back upright and leans in with a tube of mascara in her hand. “Look up for me.”

Harry rolls his eyeballs upward. He tries not to blink, but his eyelashes flutter against the mascara wand anyway.

“Got it.” She steps back, and Harry can finally see the mirror. 

“Looks great,” he tells Lisa automatically, before he’s fully taken in the raw sweep of color up to his brows and the shadows under his lashes hollowing out his eyes. He studies himself as she pulls out the strips of tissue tucked inside the collar of his shirt to protect it from her work. He looks creepy and delicate, like a character in a film. He’s going to move differently in this makeup. “I love it,” he adds, this time with emphasis.

“Wonderful.” Harry Lambert appears in the mirror at his other shoulder. “Gorgeous work, Lisa.” He passes Harry a pair of black leather gloves. “Here, the finishing touch.”

Harry flexes his fingers as he stretches on the first glove. The interior is soft, but the shiny leather is stiff when he curls his hand into a fist. The hem of the glove flaps loose around his wrist. Upon inspection, he notices a strap that’s supposed to go over the back. He extends his hand to Harry Lambert, palm down. “Can you…” 

As his stylist buckles him into one glove, then the other, movement catches Harry’s eye in the corner of the mirror. The door to the dressing room behind him swings open. Another Harry steps out, dressed in a black jacket, leather shorts, and fishnet stockings.

Harry wouldn’t pout, not to Harry Lambert, who’s usually a dear about giving him everything he wants plus all sorts of delightful things he never thought to. Still, he allows himself the tiniest bit of a frown. “I wanted to wear the leather look.”

“Sorry, love.” Harry Lambert peers closely at the shoulder seam of his suit and picks off a fleck of lint that Harry can’t even see. “We needed you in the suit for the dialogue.”

“Can’t he do dialogue?” The other Harry probably didn’t spend an hour last night perfecting his pronunciation of Jean Michel Basquiat like Harry did, but that’s not insurmountable. Harry could teach him.

“Mmm.” Harry Lambert steps back a pace and cocks his head to the side, then moves back in to straighten the knot in Harry’s tie. “He’s got… different strengths.”

Before Harry can ask what the other Harry’s strengths are, the director calls him to the set. The lighting makes it difficult to see anyone on the other side of the camera, and Harry almost forgets his double’s in the room as he obediently turns from side to side and answers the director’s questions. Yellow. Family. Charles Bukowski. Selfishness.

He’s doing great, absolutely smashing his dialogue. The other Harry probably wouldn’t be this good. So what if Harry Lambert brought a backup today? He and Jeff do that sometimes. It’s just an efficiency, a way to move a shoot along more quickly without having to wait for Harry to change clothes and have his hair and makeup redone between looks. He can’t take it personally. 

It’s not until the third take that anything goes awry. Halfway through the director’s questions, something brushes the top of Harry’s head. He jumps and swats wildly at the air, convinced that he’s being attacked by a bird, or some large insect. With an amplified thud, his hand connects with the fuzzy cover of the boom mic.

A bark of familiar laughter -- his own laughter -- comes from the side of the set. The other Harry’s sat back in a director’s chair, fishnet-covered legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed in his mary janes. When he catches Harry’s eye, he smirks.

Harry looks away quickly. He apologizes to the boom operator, who’s already being such a good sport to wear Harry’s Met Gala outfit, and the boom operator apologizes for startling him. Harry tries to refocus on the task at hand, but it gets harder as they move from video to still photography and the lighting shifts to make the other Harry more visible. He’s always at the edge of Harry’s vision, watching him pose, imitating his expressions, smirking when Harry’s directed to contort himself with one leg in the air. 

It makes Harry feel less creepily sexy, and more awkwardly clownish. It’s almost a relief when his portion of the shoot is finished. Instead of going to get changed, he takes a seat to watch the other Harry on set. Turnabout is fair play.

He tries to look just as mildly amused and annoyingly superior as his double did, but the other Harry is unfazed. As Casper shoots, he performs a demure, deliberate striptease, tossing his leather jacket to the ground, unbuttoning his blouse in a drawn-out reveal, cheekily undoing his shorts, and finally bending double to kick them off over his mary janes. Without neglecting the camera, he cuts his eyes toward Harry just often enough to make it clear that he’s inviting his gaze. Relishing it, even. Harry runs a finger under his collar to swipe the droplets of sweat off the back of his neck.

The director motions the other Harry -- now clad only in stockings and black bikini underpants -- to the side of the set. He strolls toward Harry and turns on his heel to wait at the edge of the set, choosing a spot that gives Harry no choice but to stare at his arse. The diamond pattern of the fishnet stockings opens wider as it spreads from his narrow calves up the backs of his thighs. Harry wants to run his hands over it, poke a finger through one of the diamond apertures, feel the texture of the netting over his skin.

Harry Lambert scoops the discarded clothing up from the floor of the set. As he shakes out the blouse, he looks the other Harry up and down. “Let’s get the shoes off, I think.”

Harry bends over from the waist, and takes his sweet time unbuckling his shoes and stripping off his white socks. The black knickers don’t quite cover his cheeks. With more control that he’s ever put into his expression on camera, and more effort than it takes to hold the longest plank of his workout, Harry arranges his face into a perfectly uninterested expression. Without looking down, he adjusts the hem of his jacket to be certain it covers his lap.

When the other Harry straightens up, Harry realizes the crew’s rolled in a different rug and remade the set while he wasn’t paying attention. “Ready for you,” Casper calls, pointing toward a chair in the center.

Harry relaxes as his arse strolls away. Then he tenses up all over again when the other Harry sinks into the chair on set and languidly stretches his arms over his head. Even with his legs crossed, his body language is open, inviting, no matter which way he moves. He’s one long line of sex, from his indolent fingertips to his fishnet-covered toes. Harry glances toward the dressing room door. He’s torn between his desire to go have a wank about this immediately, and his reluctance to miss a moment of watching his own nearly-naked body stretch and slink and preen.

A break in the action on set makes up his mind. Harry Lambert retrieves the mary janes and hands them to the other Harry to put on over his stockings. As he steps back to look at the results, his expression is dissatisfied. Harry casually strolls toward the dressing room, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. That’s usually an impossible feat in a room full of people totally focused on him, but the other Harry’s making it very easy at the moment.

He’s almost got his hand on the doorknob when Harry Lambert calls for him. “Harry, would you mind if we took the loafers?”

“Sure.” Harry straightens up and smiles so his voice will sound nice and accommodating.

“Thanks, these’ll work better, I think.” Harry Lambert meets him halfway across the studio and lets Harry balance against his shoulder while he hops from foot to foot to shuck off his shoes. As Harry Lambert heads back to the set with the loafers, he waves Harry away. “Now go get changed, your feet will freeze on this floor.”

Harry shuffles off to the dressing room with the hems of his trousers dragging at his heels. He’s shorter without the loafers. It’s really quite unfair for the other Harry to get not only the leather suit and stockings, but two inches of his height.

Inside the dressing room, the sight of himself in the lighted mirror surprises him. He’d forgotten he’s all made up. He leans over the dressing table to fully appreciate it, closing one eye and then the other to admire the details. Someone out there will wipe it off as soon as he emerges. He can enjoy it for a few more minutes first. He repeats the faces the director told him to make, trying to figure out what the photos are going to look like. Stepping back a pace, he hooks a hand behind his knee and lifts it into the air, trying to remember the pose that practically snapped his hamstring. It looks foolish in the mirror, but maybe that’s only because he’s in his stocking feet now.

He strips the glove off his right hand one finger at a time. Alone in the dressing room, he holds the empty glove to his nose and breathes in the scent of the new leather before lining the pair up together on the dressing table. As he’s sliding his jacket onto a clothes hanger, someone opens the door without knocking. Harry looks up, more curious than affronted. He doesn’t have an abundance of modesty in the first place, and especially at shoots like this, his body never feels like his own property. It’s as if he’s spared the effort of looking after it for a bit while everybody else applies such focus to the task.

Unexpectedly, it’s not a makeup artist or a stylist or a production assistant at the door. The other other Harry saunters into the dressing room, still wearing nothing but stockings. And loafers. Harry Lambert was right, the loafers really do look better. Harry realizes he’s crumpling the lapel of the jacket in his sweaty fingers. He smooths it out and hooks the hanger onto the clothes rack. 

He should be polite. This is a colleague, of sorts. He should be collegial. They can talk about work. “Were you at Late Late?” Harry asks. It was the first time he’d worked with another Harry on camera. They’d had some laughs, not like today.

The other Harry wrinkles his nose. “Nah. I only do the high-end things.” He turns back to the door, which Harry notices has a hook and eye for a lock. The other Harry slides the hook into place with a soft click, tapping it with his finger to set the hook all the way in the eye. “Last time we saw each other was at Villa Lante.”

Ah, the Gucci tailoring shoot. This must be the Harry who always has his lips gently parted, tongue pressed against the back of his teeth. “You got to hold the lamb.”

The other Harry hoists himself up to sit on the dressing table. He leans back and crosses his ankles, swinging his fishnet-covered legs back and forth, the picture of insouciance. “But Alessandro gave you the baby goats.”

“You know Alessandro?” He wonders what it feels like to sit with the grid of the stockings pressed against the backs of his thighs. Probably a little uncomfortable, in a good way. The kind of sensation that keeps you focused.

The other Harry lines up the toe of one shoe with the back of the other and drags it off his heel. The glossy black loafer dangles precariously from his foot.

“Of course I do.” He points his toes downward, tipping the shoe loose. It hits the floor with a smack that seems to travel across the polished concrete and up through the soles of Harry’s feet straight to his dick. “I’m you.”

Something seems off about that, metaphysically speaking. But maybe he’s right, because Harry knows exactly what the other Harry means when he flexes his other foot toward him, toes back so he can see the scuff marks on the sole of his shoe. He'd know it even if he wasn’t also tipping his head back a little, looking down at Harry, a little haughty, a little unimpressed, entirely infuriating. 

Harry crosses the room toward the dressing table. The tailored trousers tighten across the tops of his thighs as he crouches down. He cups the heel of the loafer in one hand and slides it off the other Harry’s foot.

“Good.” He wiggles his toes in satisfaction, the movement visible under the closely-gathered diamonds of fishnet at the tip of his foot. Distracted by the flex of his calf, Harry barely realizes he’s still crouched on the floor, the loafer dumbly clutched in his hand, until the other Harry prods at it with his toes. Harry drops the shoe next to the first one.

Before he can stand up, the other Harry scoots forward and plants a fishnet-covered foot on either side of him. He hooks a thumb under the narrow band of elastic at the top of his stockings. “Go on.”

Harry sinks down to his knees between the other Harry’s legs. He looks up, past his thighs, past the hollow of his belly button shot through with the seam of the stockings, past the familiar tattoos, doublechecking for permission.

The other Harry lets the waistband snap back into place against his side. With both hands on the tabletop, he lifts his hips off the dressing table. “Take them off.”

Harry reaches up to slip his hands inside the stockings. The netting stretches across his knuckles as he spreads his hands over the other Harry’s hips. He draws the fishnets slowly down his body, letting the material gather under his wrists as his hands drag over the firm curve of the other Harry’s arse and the lean muscles of his thighs.

It gives him the same feeling as stepping out of the shower after a good workout, toweling off in front of a half-steamed mirror. Inspecting his body, pleased with what he’s done for it, with what it can do. He’s going slowly to savor it, but he’s pretty sure the other Harry can hold his hips up for a while. They do a lot of tricep dips.

Harry stops when he’s got the fishnets half off, low enough to reveal how his Malibu tan fades gradually into the pale of his upper thighs. The other Harry sinks back to sit on the dressing table with the crotch of the stockings stretched between his knees. Harry leans forward and presses his cheek against the inside edge of his tiger tattoo, fully intending to nose his way toward the tantalizing bulge of the black briefs. It’s infuriating that the other Harry’s barely hard, while he’s on his knees and so erect he’s practically dizzy with it.

The other Harry jerks his knee upward, catching Harry under the chin with the crotch of the stockings. He holds his knees apart with the center of the stockings taut between them, suspending Harry’s face away from his target. “Not so fast.”

Harry stifles a whine.

The other Harry snaps the waistband of the stockings with his fingertip, popping it against Harry’s chin. “Finish up.”

Harry yanks the stockings down gracelessly and tugs them off the other Harry’s toes. In his haste, his fingers snare themselves in the netting. He scrapes one palm against the other to free himself, but only succeeds in tightening an aperture of fishnet around the base of his pinky finger, threatening to cut off circulation.

As he flaps his hands, trying to shake the stockings loose, the other Harry hops to his feet and catches him by the wrists. He stills his hands with his palms pressed together, as if Harry’s waiting to be cuffed. The other Harry probes at the tangle of fishnet and works the twist of netting up and off his cinched finger. Harry expects him to laugh, but he doesn’t.

Harry waits on his knees as the other Harry shakes the empty stockings out to their full length. They hang weightlessly from his hand like a snakeskin. He looks down at Harry. One side of his mouth quirks upward in a half smirk. He throws the crotch of the stockings behind Harry’s neck, so that the legs hang down over his shoulders like the stole of a cabaret priest. Then he curls his hand under the strip of necktie above Harry’s waistcoat and pulls him to his feet.

There were things Harry wanted to accomplish while he was on his knees, but his momentary annoyance at standing up is forgotten when the other Harry bends over to shed his black briefs. Harry recognizes the move: pants shoved down his legs symmetrically, all the way to the floor before he steps out of them. It’s stripping to make a point, not teetering on one leg at a time to kick off his pants the way he might if he was alone in his bedroom. The sight evokes a strange combination of deja vu and muscle memory.

When he straightens up, Harry gets a too-brief glimpse of the long naked length of himself before the other Harry steps close and begins to undo his waistcoat, close enough to touch. Harry breathes in, and the scent of the other body in his space is intimate and familiar. Like pressing his nose to the collar of one of his vintage t-shirts, the soft and threadbare ones he wears and wears again to make them last without too many trips through the laundry.

As the other Harry’s hands deftly separate his buttons, Harry looks over him to the dressing table mirror. The view of the other Harry’s arse is so much better than craning his head over his own shoulder to catch a glimpse from that angle. Looking at it straight on, Harry congratulates himself on all of the squats he’s ever done.

The other Harry loosens the knot of his tie and pulls it slowly from under his collar, so that Harry can feel the drag around his neck through the fine fabric of his shirt. But he works quickly from there, discarding tie, waistcoat, and shirt in a heap on the floor as Harry’s pulse kicks up to match his pace. The fishnet stockings sit lightly on his bare skin, still hanging loose over his shoulders.

The other Harry tucks his fingertips under Harry’s waistband and presses his knuckles into the soft skin beneath Harry’s navel as he unfastens his trousers. Harry twitches his hips forward and kicks the trousers off heedlessly, already reaching for something, anything.

His fingers close around the other Harry’s cock, and it’s gratifyingly hard in his hand. Harry presses himself in close and buries his nose in the self-scented juncture of the other Harry’s neck. His own body, newly available to him.

Tension tightens around his neck. He tries to pull back, but he’s stopped short by the snare of the fishnet stockings. The other Harry has the ankles gathered in one hand and spooled around his wrist. As Harry meets his eyes, he circles his wrist again, wrapping the stockings tighter, holding Harry in place nose to nose. He draws his elbow back, pulling Harry against his body so that his lips just brush Harry’s ear when he whispers, “I think you’d like to suck my dick.”

Harry’s not entirely sure that the words were spoken aloud. But it doesn’t make any difference, does it? Even if the words were only inside his head, they both know it’s true. Of course he would. He’d also like the other Harry to suck his dick. Or bend him over the dressing table and eat him out mercilessly. Or sink his teeth into the sensitive spot on his neck that he’s pretty sure the other Harry must know about.  There are too many things to want, but he’s not going to start by telling himself no. “Yes, I want to suck your dick,” Harry says petulantly. He wriggles against the other Harry, wondering if there’ll be some kind of static electricity spark if their dicks touch.

The other Harry keeps his wrist tense and pauses expectantly, still holding Harry in place with the stockings.

Harry sighs. “...you arrogant son of a bitch,” he finishes.

“Beautiful.” The other Harry tugs downward on the fishnet lasso to bring Harry to his knees. He smiles serenely as he leans back against the dressing table and opens his legs.

Harry ought to slow down, ought to give himself the slow, teasing, deliberate blow job of his dreams. But he’s too eager to have his dick in his mouth, to finally know what it feels like..  _ There _ , he thinks, as he slides his lips down to the base of it,  _ it does fit.  _ His nose presses into the soft give of his belly and his cock grazes the back of his throat.  _ Anyone who can’t isn’t trying hard enough _ .

The other Harry drops the ends of the fishnet stockings, tipping his head back, gripping the edge of the dressing table. Harry sinks his fingers into the meat of his thighs and presses them open, shouldering in as close as he can, drinking it all in.

Harry’s no stranger to time-sensitive head, and he knows how to get the job done. It’s an advantage knowing exactly what will make his breath catch and his toes curl. He sinks deeper, nudging his forehead against his belly, curling his tongue along his shaft. The other Harry’s muscles tense and his breath comes in short sharp gasps until he knocks his knee against Harry’s shoulder.

Harry pauses, mouth open, spit-speared, tongue reaching out.

The other Harry nudges his knee under his chin. “Your turn.”

He doesn’t have to specify. Harry knows, at some bone-deep level. “There’s, um…”

The other Harry slithers out from under him. “I know it’s in your bag.”

Harry wipes his chin on the back of his wrist and straightens up on his knees to watch in the mirror. His lipstick is smeared around the edges of his mouth, and the fishnet stockings still hang over his shoulders. But what’s going on behind him is even more arousing. The other Harry pulls his leather carry-out out from under the clothes rack. He doesn’t bother to rummage around in it, just plunges his hand straight into the inner pocket and comes right up with the little bottle of lube, like he’s a carnival claw machine.

Harry points a finger at his bag in the mirror. “Same pocket, there’s a…”

“You can’t catch anything from me that you don’t have already.” The other Harry advances behind him.

“I don’t have anything,” Harry says indignantly. “But… what about…” This is all existentially weird enough that he might as well ask. You never know...

“No.” The other Harry rolls his eyes. “You can’t get pregnant.” He tosses the lube onto the dressing table and mockingly pats Harry on the shoulder. “Sorry to tell you.” He points at the leather gloves on the dressing table. “I think you’ll want those.”

Harry obediently picks them up and puts them on, forcing his knuckles past the still-buckled straps now that Harry Lambert isn’t around to help. He’s not going to ask the other Harry to buckle him. Gloves on, he meets the other Harry’s eyes in the mirror and flexes his fingers around the edge of the dressing table. The corners of the other Harry’s mouth crimp up into a pleased little smile.

The other Harry takes the stockings by the waistband and draws them back off of Harry’s shoulders. The feet trail up his chest, still quirked with the faint impression of the other Harry’s heels. As Harry watches in the mirror, he stretches the fabric out between his hands, over Harry’s head. The fishnet diamonds blend into each other as he draws the stockings out into a narrow black line. He lowers it between Harry’s face and the mirror, bisecting his image into eyes and mouth.

“Open,” he instructs, pulling the stockings taut against Harry’s lips. 

Harry drops his jaw. The other Harry works the stretched stockings back into his mouth, pressing the taste of himself into his tongue. He bites down on the gag, and the fishnet strings shift grittily against each other between his teeth. The other Harry knots the stockings behind his head, ankles over waist. Harry blinks hard, willing tears to his eyes, imagining how he’d look with weepy eyeliner streaking down his face above the stocking gag. But try as he might, he can’t cry. He’s too edgy with anticipation, the good kind, the kind that’s got to be fucked out of him hard before he earns the release of tears. 

“All right?” the other Harry asks, touching the edge of his stocking-stretched mouth.

Harry nods emphatically.

“Try it.” The other Harry traces a thumb over his lower lip. “Say something.”

“Fuck me,” Harry mumbles, knowing full well that the gag will turn it into  _ uhhh mmphh _ , and also knowing that it doesn’t matter.

“Good,” the other Harry practically purrs. With a palm under his arse, he presses Harry to his feet. His thumb nudges between his legs, where the fabric of Harry’s white briefs goes slack. They don’t have quite the skin-tight fit of the black underpants the other Harry got to wear underneath his stockings. There’s no reason Harry couldn't have worn the black ones with his Treat People t-shirt. Maybe they could reshoot.

Then his white briefs are gone, yanked down. His cock bobs in the mirror as it snags and releases the waistband. Harry has a new appreciation for it, now that it’s been in his mouth. It looks splendid in the mirror, framed by his leather-gloved hands gripping the edge of the dressing table.

It looks even better doubled when the other Harry steps into the reflection next to him to retrieve the lube from the dressing table. He drizzles a generous amount over his fingers, and smears his thumb through it in lazy circles. Harry’s tongue presses damply against the stockings as his mouth starts to water. His body opens to the other Harry’s slick fingers like they were meant to be there.

He closes his eyes at the intensity of the sensation, and then forces them open so he won’t miss anything. The other Harry holds his hip steady with his tattooed hand, the cross visible in the mirror just below the thumb along his hipbone. Harry presses back into his other hand and breathes something --  _ yes _ or  _ please _ or  _ oh _ , it doesn’t matter, filtered through the stockings in his mouth it won’t be anything but incoherent pleasure.

The other Harry steps to the side to slick himself up, letting Harry watch in the mirror. His eyes nearly do start to water, watching the slow teasing slide of the other Harry’s cock in his fist. Just the right speed, just the right pressure, and he aches for it. He nudges his hip against the other Harry’s, and half-mumbles into the gag,  _ me _ or  _ mine _ or  _ now _ , and looks pleadingly into the mirror.

The other Harry transfers his grip to Harry’s cock, using just the slow firm stroke that Harry would use if he were bringing himself off. Harry exhales hotly against the fishnet stockings with exhilaration and relief. The other Harry keeps up the tempo as he grips Harry by the hip and pushes slowly inside him. 

Harry drops his head and presses his hips back to meet him. He’s always suspected that he has a rather nice cock, but learning firsthand how very nice it feels inside himself is dizzying. He’s simultaneously unmoored from his body and tethered to it more deeply than ever before: the familiar sensation of wanking himself, escalated by the intensity of filling himself, all without his hands on his body. Frantic, ecstatic noises escape from his bound mouth.

Harry bends low to the table, planting his feet and bracing himself to meet every thrust. Over his shoulder, the other Harry’s hair falls loose and damp in his face. The plane of muscle that runs between his laurel tattoos tenses as he thrusts harder, driving Harry forward until he’s almost nose to nose with himself in the mirror. Above himself, inside himself, facing himself: it’s practically perfect. There’s only one small thing; insignificant, really, in the midst of the waves of pleasure coursing through his body...

The other Harry bends forward, chest against his back. Stilling inside him, he reaches up to smear a thumb along Harry’s browbone, dragging a messy streak of color down his cheek. Harry braces a gloved hand against the reflective surface, framing his face in the right angle between his thumb and forefinger -- the damp, lipstick-smeared mouth, the decomposition of his makeup, the tear-filled eyes -- and thinks, with deep satisfaction, that he’s never looked better.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://ferryboatpeak.tumblr.com/) for more harrycest, filthy tagfic, and correct opinions.


End file.
